The Greatest Gift, by Raksha The Demon
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lindahoyland: What were the circumstances surrounding Aragorn's birth and its aftermath?
Where was he born? Who was there? How did his parents and his people react? Gen.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Drama, Family
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Arathorn II, Elrond.
Pairings: Arathorn II/Gilraen
Summary: Arathorn faces the contradictions of new fatherhood. Can Elrond ease his divided heart?
The Greatest Gift
At last, the long wait was over. The cold winds abated their fury; the sun rose in a cloudless sky, Gilraen’s labor ended, and Ivorwen placed the newest Heir of Isildur into Arathorn’s arms.
Relief that Gilraen was alive and well flooded Arathorn’s weary mind, then gave way to the knowledge that the Heir was not just a link in the great chain of heritage reaching back to Isildur and Elendil, but a living, breathing baby. His son!
Ringed by his joyful kindred and friends and as many other Dúnedain as could fit in the old hall, Arathorn forced a smile. They praised the strength and beauty of the child, foretelling his mastery of the sword and the number of orcs he would slay, and congratulated Arathorn on the birth of such a fine big son. Arathorn finally stepped back, closer to the crackling hearth, to keep the child warm and to catch his own breath. He looked down, not daring to move or pull aside the blanket for fear of shifting his grip and dropping his son.
The boy looked hale, only slightly red-faced under a cap of dark hair. There was no detectable likeness to his father, mercifully, for Arathorn had always known that his was a face more grim than handsome. Then the infant opened his eyes and Arathorn recognized Gilraen’s eyes, so clear and bright a gray they seemed almost silver. How beautiful. He must remember to tell her.
The child looked up fearlessly, and unfolded one arm to reach out and grab onto Arathorn’s supporting hand. Stars of Elendil! How could his kin call him “big”? The pink hand that gripped his thumb was perfect, but tiny beside Arathorn’s own large, calloused hand. His son was a little baby, not a mighty Ranger and Warrior.
Oh, my son, my son, he spoke without words. Arathorn struggled with a sudden wave of rancor. You should have been born in a great Numenorean city, Annúminas or Minas Tirith, and wrapped in lordly raiment, not a plain woolen blanket. Your birth should have been trumpeted across the North and South Kingdoms; and men of the East and South should have heard of your coming and sent envoys to bear you kingly gifts. Your grandfather should have lifted you to his lap and laughed as you pulled his beard, instead he lies cold in an unmarked grave, cruelly slain by hill-trolls. What kind of life can I give you, little son, but an endless trial of battles and wandering in the shadows?
He had never aspired to the kingship of his longfathers, but now Arathorn remembered it with anger and sorrow. He tightened his grip on the infant. My precious boy, you are the heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor, yet you are born in a half-ruined old fortress in the Angle, surrounded by the threadbare tents of our people.
“Do not sorrow so, foster-son,” spoke Elrond, who had suddenly appeared beside him. And whether Elrond spoke aloud or to him in the quiet space of their thoughts; Arathorn could not tell. “This child may not wear kingly raiment, but he is well-cloaked in the love and protection you bear him, and attended by hundreds who would die to shield him from harm.”
“Will that be enough, Master Elrond?”
“The Dúnedain are staunch and true. So are the Elves of Rivendell, who will also guard your son.”
Arathorn thought of his years at Rivendell, the strength and power of the Elves, of Elladan and Elrohir, who were as brothers to him. He wondered what more Elrond might know, in his ancient wisdom and foresight.
“Can you see his path?” he asked his foster-father.
Elrond sighed, and for a moment, Arathorn thought he saw doubt flicker across the Peredhil’s usually calm face.
“Enough to know that though this child has a long and hard road before him, he holds within him the greatness he will need to travel it. He will not receive gifts from afar, yet he already has the gift of kingly valor from his own valiant father and mother.” Elrond smiled wearily, and touched the child’s face, then Arathorn’s own forehead. “Your son has brought hope to us all. But he himself is the greatest gift, as is every child. Love him and treasure the time you will have with him, Arathorn.”
How could he not? He kissed the baby’s forehead, marveling at the softness of his son’s skin, and dared to lift him slightly, to hold him closer to his heart. Arathorn shifted his gaze slightly, from his son to his foster-father. Elrond smiled upon them both, and all was not only well in the world on this one brave day, but wondrous. And yet, and yet…Arathorn wondered why, when Elrond had spoken of hope and love, did his foster-father look so sad?
*******
Author's Note: The last line is paraphrased from a remembered last line in the story The Keeper's Price, by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Elizabeth Waters, though the context differs slightly.
lindahoyland: What were the circumstances surrounding Aragorn's birth and its aftermath?Where was he born? Who was there? How did his parents and his people react? Gen.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Drama, Family
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Arathorn II, Elrond.
Pairings: Arathorn II/Gilraen
Summary: Arathorn faces the contradictions of new fatherhood. Can Elrond ease his divided heart?
At last, the long wait was over. The cold winds abated their fury; the sun rose in a cloudless sky, Gilraen’s labor ended, and Ivorwen placed the newest Heir of Isildur into Arathorn’s arms.
Relief that Gilraen was alive and well flooded Arathorn’s weary mind, then gave way to the knowledge that the Heir was not just a link in the great chain of heritage reaching back to Isildur and Elendil, but a living, breathing baby. His son!
Ringed by his joyful kindred and friends and as many other Dúnedain as could fit in the old hall, Arathorn forced a smile. They praised the strength and beauty of the child, foretelling his mastery of the sword and the number of orcs he would slay, and congratulated Arathorn on the birth of such a fine big son. Arathorn finally stepped back, closer to the crackling hearth, to keep the child warm and to catch his own breath. He looked down, not daring to move or pull aside the blanket for fear of shifting his grip and dropping his son.
The boy looked hale, only slightly red-faced under a cap of dark hair. There was no detectable likeness to his father, mercifully, for Arathorn had always known that his was a face more grim than handsome. Then the infant opened his eyes and Arathorn recognized Gilraen’s eyes, so clear and bright a gray they seemed almost silver. How beautiful. He must remember to tell her.
The child looked up fearlessly, and unfolded one arm to reach out and grab onto Arathorn’s supporting hand. Stars of Elendil! How could his kin call him “big”? The pink hand that gripped his thumb was perfect, but tiny beside Arathorn’s own large, calloused hand. His son was a little baby, not a mighty Ranger and Warrior.
Oh, my son, my son, he spoke without words. Arathorn struggled with a sudden wave of rancor. You should have been born in a great Numenorean city, Annúminas or Minas Tirith, and wrapped in lordly raiment, not a plain woolen blanket. Your birth should have been trumpeted across the North and South Kingdoms; and men of the East and South should have heard of your coming and sent envoys to bear you kingly gifts. Your grandfather should have lifted you to his lap and laughed as you pulled his beard, instead he lies cold in an unmarked grave, cruelly slain by hill-trolls. What kind of life can I give you, little son, but an endless trial of battles and wandering in the shadows?
He had never aspired to the kingship of his longfathers, but now Arathorn remembered it with anger and sorrow. He tightened his grip on the infant. My precious boy, you are the heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor, yet you are born in a half-ruined old fortress in the Angle, surrounded by the threadbare tents of our people.
“Do not sorrow so, foster-son,” spoke Elrond, who had suddenly appeared beside him. And whether Elrond spoke aloud or to him in the quiet space of their thoughts; Arathorn could not tell. “This child may not wear kingly raiment, but he is well-cloaked in the love and protection you bear him, and attended by hundreds who would die to shield him from harm.”
“Will that be enough, Master Elrond?”
“The Dúnedain are staunch and true. So are the Elves of Rivendell, who will also guard your son.”
Arathorn thought of his years at Rivendell, the strength and power of the Elves, of Elladan and Elrohir, who were as brothers to him. He wondered what more Elrond might know, in his ancient wisdom and foresight.
“Can you see his path?” he asked his foster-father.
Elrond sighed, and for a moment, Arathorn thought he saw doubt flicker across the Peredhil’s usually calm face.
“Enough to know that though this child has a long and hard road before him, he holds within him the greatness he will need to travel it. He will not receive gifts from afar, yet he already has the gift of kingly valor from his own valiant father and mother.” Elrond smiled wearily, and touched the child’s face, then Arathorn’s own forehead. “Your son has brought hope to us all. But he himself is the greatest gift, as is every child. Love him and treasure the time you will have with him, Arathorn.”
How could he not? He kissed the baby’s forehead, marveling at the softness of his son’s skin, and dared to lift him slightly, to hold him closer to his heart. Arathorn shifted his gaze slightly, from his son to his foster-father. Elrond smiled upon them both, and all was not only well in the world on this one brave day, but wondrous. And yet, and yet…Arathorn wondered why, when Elrond had spoken of hope and love, did his foster-father look so sad?
Author's Note: The last line is paraphrased from a remembered last line in the story The Keeper's Price, by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Elizabeth Waters, though the context differs slightly.
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Date: 2015-03-06 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-06 08:39 am (UTC)Thanks for the review, Elliska.